


an angel went up in flames

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Brokeback Mountain AU, M/M, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Louis is hired to herd sheep for the summer, he never expects the consequences to have that grand an impact on his life.<br/>Brokeback Mountain AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an angel went up in flames

**Author's Note:**

> originally written or tumblr user i-stylinson (who is very lovely) for larryficmas
> 
> it'll be two or three parts because otherwise i wouldn't have made the deadline oops
> 
> one direction nor brokemack mountain are owned by moi (also some dialogue directly from the film sorry)

**1963**

The thing is, he hadn’t expected _anything_. He hadn’t even expected to show up, but here he is – at goddamn unholy o’clock in the morning – leaning against a wooden wall and throwing away a cigarette butt. He needs the money, alright?

A dark truck drives up to the parking lot and stops. There’s a man stepping out, a tall man, and Louis all but scowls because he would _love_ to be that tall. Being that tall would solve ninety-three point eight per cent of his problems, except not really. (But it would.)

Louis decides to look away and study his boots, instead.

And he waits, suspects the other man is waiting as well, because he’s leaning against the back of his truck, all broad-shouldered and manly poses and curls (for god’s sake) peeking out from under his felt hat.

They wait, and Louis thinks he may dislike the man. Maybe.

They wait while the sun climbs higher and it becomes hot outside.

They wait while Louis goes to sit on the stairs in front of the house and yawns a few times and while Harry shaves himself while looking in the rear-view mirror of his truck.

They wait and wait and wait and don’t say a word.

They wait and watch cars and lorries driving by and how none of them forks their way, until one does.

Louis hastily gets up from the stairs when the car parks next to it, a middle-aged man with sunglasses and the obligatory felt hat almost-but-not-quite pushing him aside, stepping inside, closing the door behind him.

They wait, but not for long this time.

The door is forcefully pushed open again. “If you pair of deuces are looking for work, I suggest you get your asses in here, pronto,” the man barks. _Definitely Cowell_ , Louis concludes, from what he’s heard.

And they do. Get their asses in there, that is.

Simon Cowell isn’t a man for small talk. He sits down behind his desk, doesn’t ask questions – doesn’t offer them seats either – and states what he wants.

There’ll be one camp tender, he tells them, and the other will set up a tent between the sheep. “Eat supper, breakfast in camp, but sleep with the sheep, hundred per cent, _no fire_. Don’t leave no sign.”

It’s because of the predators, Louis gets as much – near twenty-five per cent loss last year, Cowell says, after which he lights up a cigarette as if the thought is depressing enough to make him crave a smoke. Probably is, too.

After being ordered to be down at the bridge with their grocery list and the mules the following day, Cowell pauses, picks up the phone, and stares at them pointedly – _dismissed your asses_ , it means, and the two of them leave awkwardly.

(If the curly-haired man has to stoop to get out of the door, Louis pretends not to be pissed off by it.)

The door slams shut behind them as they walk down the steps.

“Harry Styles.” There’s a hand sticking in Louis’ direction, accompanied by a smile.

Louis stays up on the last step, but _not_ because it makes him feel taller. _Not_. He reaches out and they shake hands. “Louis,” he mutters.

A raised eyebrow – a question.

“Louis Tomlinson.”

“Well, Louis Tomlinson, seeing as we’re going to be working together, I reckon it’s time we start drinking together, yeah?”

So they do.

They go to a bar, dimly lit despite the early time. Harry chats merrily and Louis listens – it’s nice, he doesn’t need to talk too much. And it may or may not cause him to get over his initial dislike of the man, which is nice too, he supposes.

Harry is all smiles and enthusiastic chatter and kind eyes and he _drinks_ , drinks two pints in ten minutes while Louis is dawdling over his half-filled bottle.

“You not thirsty, then?” Harry asks eventually, because it must’ve been kind of obvious, then.

“Yeah well. Haven’t got anything but some change, mate,” he confesses, half nonchalant and half embarrassed. It’s always like that – parsimony never really leaving his mind, because _what about tomorrow_?

“You drink up and I’ll worry about the tab.”

It’s not only his eyes that are kind then.

And they talk on about sheep –

(“S’my second year up here”, Harry tells him, “last year the lighting killed forty-two sheep. Atrocious sight really, and the smell was even worse.”)

– and life –

(“You ever done rodeo?”

“Sometimes. When I can afford the entry fees.”

“My old man was a champ. I’m just trying to keep up the family honour.” Harry knocks his rodeo belt buckle at that, gleaming with barely concealed pride.)

– and family.

(“I can’t please him though. I can try, but I never do.”

“Huh.”

“You from ranching people then?”

“I was.”

“Did your folks run you off?”

Flinch. “Ran themselves off, actually.”

He lights up a cigarette.)

They talk on, and they drink, too.

* * *

It’s early again, too goddamn early for anyone to be up and working, but Louis is. He’s watching some guy – named Zane or Zain or whatever – show him how to pack the mules.

“Don’t order soup though,” he advises, “S’hard to pack.”

“Don’t eat soup,” Louis shrugs.

And then Harry makes his _elegant_ appearance, on the back of a bucking isabelline mare. It doesn’t seem as if he’s having trouble, despite his unmistakeably troublesome situation, and Louis kind of admires his expertise.

But Louis does come from a ranch, and he can’t _not_ say anything. “That horse looks like it’s got a low startle point, mate. Might throw you off hard.”

But Harry, who’s – more or less – got the horse under control now, just laughs. “I doubt any horse in this place can throw me off. So are we going to get going, or d’you want to tie knots all day?”

_Cheeky little fuck._

And off they go, off to Brokeback Mountain.

* * *

There’s a lot of sheep in the flock. A _lot_. They ride for almost the entire day, and all Louis sees is grass and hills and sky and _sheep_. Good thing he gets paid for this. And it’s only the first day, too.

At night he’s thankful for the dark, even though there’s still endless amounts of waggling wool burned on the backs of his eyelids. He’s less thankful for the cold, though.

At least there’s the whisky to keep them warm.

They sit by the fire and eat beans and talk talk _talk_ until Harry goes up to sleep in his tent between the sheep and Louis stays behind in the main camp.

It becomes a routine, eventually, and Louis likes that. He likes routines, habits – it makes him feel safe, for some reason, steady.

When Louis wakes up he cooks breakfast (beans) on the smouldering remains of the fire, and when Harry arrives they eat it together. They saddle their horses and spend the day between the flock and when the sun sets they get back to the main camp where they make a new fire and Harry cooks supper (beans).

It’s a routine, yes, but it’s freedom, somehow. They’re working and doing what Cowell’s told them to do, but they’re out in the open, with no one watching, just them. It’s in the air, Louis reckons, the unfettered freshness that’s filling his pores.

Harry gets his mare under control faster and faster and Louis learns how to not burn breakfast, and they both just really enjoy the quiet of the hills.

But it’s not all uncomplicated merriness without boundaries. They do get annoyed sometimes – or often – because it’s great, Brokeback Mountain, but it’s not home.

They eat beans a lot.

(All they eat is beans, really.)

And Louis may be fond of routine, he’s definitely not _that_ fond of it.

So when Harry says “No more beans” the morning Zane-Zain-whatever is coming to bring their ordered groceries, he wholeheartedly agrees.

When he comes, Louis hands him the new list and starts packing the mules.

“I thought you didn’t eat soup,” the man says.

“Sick of beans.”

“It’s too early in the summer to be sick of beans.”

But he really, truly was.

He mounts Cigar Butt and rides back, not exactly hurrying but just enjoying the bit of sun and the slight breeze and the silence-

There’s a fucking loud roar of a surprisingly small bear by the river and everything turns to chaos then. Louis’ horse rears up and throws him off and runs, gallops away with the two mules in the opposite direction of the startled bear, and Louis is left alone on the rocky ground, red moisture on the side of his head and seeping into his right eye.

It’s quite painful, that.

But he tries to ignore it and scrambles up, shouting after the horse, following it – but it doesn’t really help a lot, damn it all.

* * *

When he gets back to the camp it’s dark, but he did find Cigar Butt. There was no trace of the mules, except for cans of food spread around here and there in the grass.

Harry is there immediately, naturally. “Where the hell have you been?” he demands, trying to sound angry as a poor disguise of his concern. “I’ve been herding the sheep all day and when I get down here, you’re nowhere to be seen. All I could find were beans!”

Louis doesn’t answer. His head hurt like hell and so did his side, and he was exhausted. Starving, too.

When he hears a gasp, he remembers the dried blood on his cheek and temple.

“Good god, Louis. What happened?” It’s shocked, startled even, maybe.

Just a sigh. “T’was a bear, down by the river.” He gestures to Cigar Butt. “Horse spooked and took off, mules went along with ‘im. Scattered food everywhere.” A pause. “Beans are about all we got left.”

“Where are the mules then?”

“Couldn’t find them.”

“Oh.” Harry offers him a canteen of water, but he refuses. Water wouldn’t help shit.

“Whisky.”

And Harry takes off his bandana and wets it with fluid from a bottle, reaching out to him and hovering the cloth over his temple. Louis takes it from him then – it’s not that he doesn’t trust him, really. He just needs to do it himself. _Still hurts though_ , he thinks, when he presses it to the cut and winces, almost biting his tongue.

He could be wrong, but he thinks he saw Harry wince as well.

“Shit,” Harry sighs eventually. “We’re going to have to do something about the food situation.”

* * *

They do. Louis shoots a deer after Harry’s missed four times, and the taller man is elated because _wooo, there’s meat on the table!_

It’s a good day, that one. But they wouldn’t be human if they didn’t find something else to complain about, huh?

“I’m fucking exhausted,” Harry wails one night, when they’re sitting by the fire. “All I do is come in for breakfast, go back to the sheep, get ‘em bedded down, come in for supper, spend half the night looking for damn coyotes.” He opens another beer. “Cowell’s got no right to make me do this.”

“You want to switch, mate?”

“Isn’t the point, Louis. The point is that we both ought to be down here, and not in that damn pup tent.”

“I wouldn’t mind being out there.” He really doesn’t.

“Switching is fine with me. You sure though? It smells like cat piss in there.”

* * *

And there’s a new routine, much like their previous one but the other way around. It’s nice, again, even though the pup tent _does_ smell like cat piss. But the evenings by the fire are the same – except for the occasional meat instead of beans – and the whisky is the same. The talking is the same, too.

Harry talks and Louis listens.

But sometimes it’s the other way around. Once, it is.

“I don’t rodeo much myself,” Louis says one night, when he sees Harry having trouble with his belt buckle after taking a piss. “My kind of riding involves staying on a horse longer than eight seconds. What’s the point, anyway?”

Harry grins, fixes his buckle and grabs the whiskey bottle. “Money’s a good point.”

And Louis laughs, because it’s – “True enough, as long as you don’t get stamped earning it.”

Harry laughs as well. “My old man was a bull rider, you know,” he says after a bit, “He was quite well-known in his day. But he never taught me a thing. Never came to see me ride, either.”

There’s no bitter emotion behind the words – nothing but maybe a little disappointment. Louis would feel bad for him, but it doesn’t really seem like Harry minds all that much.

“So what about your sisters, then?”

Louis had told him that he raised his siblings after his parents died, but that’s _all_ he’d told him. He doesn’t like bringing the past up again. What’s the point, anyway?

“Yeah, well. Did them as right as I could with twenty-four dollars in a coffee can.”

Harry doesn’t reply. He’s good with this kind of stuff, much better than Louis will ever be – he knows what to do or say and when to not say or do anything, like know. It’s as if he sees right through people.

Or it could just be him, of course. He hasn’t exactly seen Harry interact much with other people.

But it makes Louis feel at ease, that trait of Harry’s – it’s calming, and it almost makes him trust him, almost lets him take his walls down.

“I got me a year of high school,” he suddenly opens up without knowing why himself. “But it didn’t work, with the girls growing up. Then my eldest sister married a roughneck and left – took the other girls with her, too. Me and my mate Stan went to work on a ranch, down south. T’was good, that. But last month he got married as well – no place left for me. So looked for work, and ended up here.”

He looks up at Harry, but the man only smiles at him.

“What?”

“Mate, that’s the most you’ve spoken in the past two weeks.”

Yeah, well. So. He smiles back.

“Two weeks? It’s the most I’ve spoken in a year.” And, just because why not, he adds, “My dad, he was a fine calf roper. Didn’t do much rodeo though - he always used to say rodeo cowboys were just fuck-ups.”

“The hell they are!” Harry shouts, but it’s banter, not anger. He hops upright and pretends to bull ride, bucking and twisting and jumping around the camp fire until he trips and lands right next to Louis, who’s probably never laughed as much in his whole life. It’s not even funny either, but it is, damn it. There’s more, still, more laughter bubbling up from his belly and it’s all glorious.

When he mounts Cigar Butt to return to the pup tent between the sheep, he feels like he could paw the white out of the moon.

* * *

It’s even better after that night. Louis feels more comfortable in his own skin, Harry having chased away unease he hadn’t realised was there. It wasn’t like he hasn’t had friends before either – he had Stan – but this is different, all different, every bit of it.

They talk and smile and _banter_ and herd sheep, of course, and maybe they both realise that this is about how good life can get.

They roam around the mountain, setting up camps in different places.

“This tent don’t look right.”

“It ain’t going nowhere. Let it be.” Harry starts playing his harmonica again.

“That harmonica don’t sound quite right.”

He stops, and looks at the dented metal, all but pouting. “That’s ‘cause it got flattened when that mare threw me.”

So he didn’t have the isabelline mare under control completely, then. “I thought you said that mare couldn’t throw you off?”

“She got lucky,” Harry huffs.

“If I was lucky, that harmonica would’ve broken in two.”

Talk and smile and _banter_.

And whiskey, of course.

It’s what keeps them warm at night, what can they say? It’s that routine again, slightly adjusted as now Harry cooks both breakfast and supper. (Louis burned the beans three times in a row.)

And sometimes, when it’s really cold, they might go overboard a bit. Sometimes, they get drunk. And it’s not a problem for Harry, because he sleeps in the main camp – but it is for Louis. Have you ever tried to ride a horse when your blood is drowning in alcohol?

One night, Louis struggles to stand and keeps crawling on all fours. The world’s turning, faster and messier. “S’too late to go out to them damn sheep. You got an extra blanket? I’ll just sleep here and ride out at first light.”

Harry, who’s not nearly drunk as much, chuckles at his slurring. “You’ll freeze your ass when the fire dies down.

“Doubt I’ll feel anything.” He’s had enough whisky, he reckons.

But he was wrong, so wrong.

It’s hours later and the middle of the night and the fire, well. The fire’s out.

And it’s fucking freezing.

Louis strongly doubts he’s ever felt this cold in his whole damn life, and he’s slept under the stars a good amount of nights. But now the cold is seeping through his skin and right to his bones, and his shivers have grown into spasms, teeth chattering loudly.

So loudly that eventually, Harry’s had enough.

“Jesus Christ, Louis, quit hammering and get over here.”

He wouldn’t, normally. But it really is fucking freezing, so he crawls inside the tent and inside Harry’s sleeping bag and against Harry’s warm skin, barely noticing how the man flinches away at the touch of his cold limbs.

Louis, on the contrary, revels in the excess of body heat and falls asleep easily, quickly, soundly.

* * *

When he wakes up it’s just before dawn and he has front pressed against Harry’s back and his hand to Harry’s crotch.

_What the fuck._

It’s not even an accident – Harry’s wrapping his enormous hand around his, and he’s _pressing_.

Louis jerks away because his hand is _burning_ as if it touched fire and he backs of completely, to the corner of the tent. But Harry doesn’t let go, he follows him, grabs the fabric of his jacket to keep him from running away, pulls him closer. And Louis just stays there, stares into eyes that aren’t green because of the dusk, stares when Harry takes his own jacket off.

When Harry leans in he can’t take it and fights back, his hands clutching the back of his head and intertwined with curls that are softer than he expected them to be. He fights back, but doesn’t know if he’s pushing Harry away or pulling him closer and suddenly there are lips touching his.

They’re not soft, those lips. They’re not what he’s used to, not full and painted like those of the scarce women he’s had – they’re chapped and rough and _real_ and moving against his in a manner that’s equally harsh and hypnotising. Addictive.

There’s Harry fumbling with that goddamn rodeo buckle and Louis doesn’t even control his thoughts anymore, he doesn’t know anything anymore, he just _wants_ and _needs_. He pushes Harry over so he’s lying on his back and straddles his hips and slaps his hands away from the buckle so he can do it himself.

He’s purposeful now, his actions are every bit as smooth as his thoughts are incoherent and it’s not supposed to work like that not supposed to be functioning, but it is.

Very much so.

He turns Harry over so that he’s on all fours and undoes his own belt and shoves his jeans down to his knees while the taller man frees his cock from his own, stroking, moaning.

It should be weird, hearing a man, a very much male man, making those sounds. It should be weird that it’s involving him, them, both, together. It should be weird that it’s like this, this violent, this messy, this _way_. It should be weird that it’s all not.

It is weird that it’s all so right when it should be so wrong.

It is, but Louis doesn’t think about that – it’s just what it is in that moment, and it’s so fucking sexy and arousing and he’s so not overthinking this right now.

He trails his fingers down Harry’s spine, rucking up his shirt, back and forth and then further down and down and down and _oh_. There’s a sharp intake of breath from both of them – Harry’s louder – when Louis’ finger slips inside him. It’s probably painful for the younger man, but Louis doesn’t care. It’s been rough, it is rough, _they_ are rough and he’s not about to change that.

So he pushes, pushes deeper, pulls back, repeats, repeats, faster. And groans of pain turn into groans of something like pleasure, but Louis doesn’t make a sound.

That is, until he decides that’s been enough and spits in his hand and tugs at his cock a few times before positioning himself, shuffling closer, and pushing himself into Harry. It’s something between a groan and a shout, he doesn’t quite know which, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is how fucking _good_ this feels and it’s burning again, like a fire, so all he can do is move.

And he does and it gets even better, with _friction_ , and that’s it, that’s how the last bit of control slips out of his hold and he pounds pounds pounds with his hands, slick with spit and sweat, gripping Harry’s shoulders, Harry’s hips. He couldn’t remember the cold of a few hours ago if he tried, didn’t remember ever feeling cold _ever_.

The younger man has stopped touching himself when Louis pushed in and is now clutching to the bedroll, knuckles white, back arched and head thrown backwards and it’s the hottest thing Louis has ever seen. He’d say beautiful, but the image is far to crude and sinful to be considered that. Beautiful things are to be flaunted, but this, this is to be kept to himself in the dark corners of his mind, only for him, only his.

Only _his_ , god fucking damn it all.

He bends over so his body is completely aligned with Harry’s, front and back all but glued together, and roams his lips over his shoulder blades, kissing, sucking, biting, and lets his hand fall down and wrap around Harry’s cock. It takes nothing more than maybe five jerks and a thumb to the head for Harry to not be able to take it anymore and coming, gasping, elbows giving out and falling to his forearms.

And the change of angle is what does it for Louis, really.

After, he untangles himself and lays down next to Harry, and they fall asleep.

They haven’t said a word.

* * *

When he wakes up for the second time, it takes him a few moments and the scent of Harry tucked to his side to convince him it wasn’t all a dream or some shit, and it only takes one inhale of the fresh morning air for him to freak out about it.

Because what the _fucking hell_ even happened? What was he even _fucking thinking_? He knows the answer to that, actually – he wasn’t thinking at all, and Christ does he regret it now.

He’s not even goddamn gay. He isn’t. He’s going to marry Eleanor in December, he’s been planning to for weeks and he even told Harry about that, he fucking knew!

He’s just mounted Cigar Butt when Harry comes out of the tent, hair a mess and looking positively bewildered. When their eyes meet, there’s hurt, too.

“See you for supper.”

Louis nods, but doesn’t talk, just leaves.

When he rides up to the pup tent, the one of the dogs start to bark incessantly. It’s a sheep, he sees when he gets closer, shredded and bloodied and clearly killed by those damn coyotes.

He should’ve been here. Should’ve been here to chase them away. This wouldn’t have happened if not for him and that whisky and the cold and _Harry_. Cowell would have his head if he found out.

This isn’t his fault. But it is.

That night, when they’re sitting beside the camp fire, he decides to talk about it – because some things really need clearing up, pronto.

“One shot thing we got going here,” he says, and that’s all the clearing up it needs, to him.

“One shot thing,” Harry repeats, voice unfathomable. A pause. “Nobody’s business but ours.”

“I’m not a queer,” Louis bites out. Because he’s fucking _not_.

“Me neither,” Harry jumps in, but it’s too quick, too hasty.

Louis lights up a cigarette and tilts his head to the sky and watches. Harry watches, too.

It’s the birth of a new routine, again. Louis doesn’t go back to sleep in the pup tent at night after that – he stays in Harry’s tent, in Harry’s sleeping bag, in Harry, leaves at dawn to check up on the flock and comes back for breakfast.

He doesn’t allow himself to think about it, because what’s there to think about? There’s nothing, nothing here. It’s only for the summer, whatever this is, and when he gets back he’s just going to live his life like he always did. He’s going to marry Eleanor in December.

Unconsciously he knows that that’s not life, that it’s never been life. _This_ is it, this is everything, right now.

One of the next days Cowell comes to check up on them.

It’s been a morning like another, Harry preparing breakfast and both of them mucking around with each other, laughing, wrestling, pulling of clothes. It’s natural, all of it, the touching and the laughing. It’s natural and it feels so damn _good_.

He comes when Harry’s chopping firewood and Louis is with the sheep – he only sees him from a distance, and later Harry tells him he’d come to inform him that his uncle’s in the hospital with pneumonia. He’s awfully quiet about it, but Louis guesses he just loves his uncle and doesn’t ask.

That night there’s a storm in the wind. He and Harry gather everything loose – dishes, pots, clothing, blankets, food – before it blows away and secure it beneath a canvas, but then there’s hail peppering down and they can’t be bothered.

“Get the fuck in here!” Harry yells at him, but he can barely hear it above the howling of the wind.

He does get in there, though, because no one in their sane mind wouldn’t. they try to close the flap but it gets blown open again, and again, so they just stay there and hold it. The tent’s close to being blown away – and it’s a bit worrisome, because then what would they do?

“The sheep will drift if I don’t get back there tonight,” Louis states.

“You’ll get pitched off your mount in a storm like this. Nothing you can do now.”

True, that.

* * *

When morning comes, the sheep are scattered all over the place. And it’s not only theirs, either.

“What are we going to do?” Louis asks, while observing the two Chilean sheepherders looking at the huge mixed herd just as glum as Harry’s doing right now.

“I can handle this,” he assures him though, cheekily. It reminds Louis of that time he claimed that his mare couldn’t throw him off – and look how that turned out, huh?

But Harry’s already riding up to the Chileans. “Hey there! You boys got your herd all mixed in with ours. My boss is going to chew my ass, and you’ve got some fucking explaining to do!” It’s all a scene of bravado, and Ennis almost laughs – but it’s the way cowboys handle things.

“¿Cual es su problema? ¿Qué dice?”

Oh Christ.

“English... Don’t either of you talk English?”

“¿Qué?”

Harry looks at him. “You speak Spanish?”

Louis shakes his head. “Son of a bitch,” he then murmurs under his breath.

“Tell you what, me and my partner here, we’re going to go cut out our sheep. That okay with you?”

They don’t understand, of course, the Chileans. That doesn’t stop Harry, nor him.

It turns out that the paint brands on the woollen fleeces have worn off because of the rain. They’re faint, at best. It’s damn frustrating, but they try to at least get the count right for Cowell – it’s not easy, though.

When they get going again, Harry plays his harmonica.

“You’ll run the sheep off again if you don’t quiet down,” Louis smiles, but Harry keeps playing.

And it’s back to that, then.

A week later or so, Harry’s packing gear when Louis crawls out of the tent.

“Cowell showed up again,” he explains, without looking back at him. “Says my uncle didn’t die. Says to bring ‘em down.”

What? “Bring ‘em down?”

“He says there’s another storm coming, moving in from the Pacific. It’s going to be worse than this one.”

“Why? It’s the middle of August, that snow barely stuck an hour.”

He’s indignant, because how’s Cowell got the right to go and take away their work? He hasn’t got enough money yet, the summer’s only halfway.

But Harry’s just grim. “He’s the boss, Louis. I’m not.”

So they pack, but there’s some kind of uneasiness. The freedom’s gone, no more elation, only tension. Harry tries to lighten the mood, though.

They wrestle.

It starts with just Louis sitting in the tall grass and Harry catching him with his lasso, continues with Louis standing up and tripping because Harry’s thrown the lasso around his ankles and it’s supposed to be banter, like always – their boots are off and there’s the gain of undressing each other, playfully, rolling around, but it’s different. Louis slips and gets kneed in the nose and there’s blood gushing and suddenly it’s not banter anymore.

Harry stills and reaches to wipe the blood away, eyes startled, but Louis won’t have it. He fights back, again, just like he did before – he fights back and grabs Harry’s shirt by his shoulders, pushing, hitting him.

It makes him so angry, all of it. It’s gotten out of control and it makes him feel things he’s never felt, never expected to feel, and he feels angry because it’s better than feeling sad.

But when he realises what he’s doing, he stops. It’s Harry, that.

He sits back and looks, sees stunned eyes looking right back. They’re shocked and maybe even frightened, but Louis doesn’t stick around long enough to analyse.

The ride back side by side, a cloak of dread wrapping around the both of them but neither acknowledging it. It’s there. What can they do?

Cowell comes over after they’ve arrived and his men are counting the sheep, stern, not pleased in the least.

“Some of these never went up with you,” he says. “The count isn’t what I’d hoped for, either.”

Louis shifts uncomfortably and looks down. Cowell has this air around him that morphs him right back to an obedient school boy, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“You ranch stiffs are never any good.”

He leaves, doesn’t waste his time on them, and Harry and Louis get back to the parking lot where the younger man left his pickup. It’s awkward as hell, and neither wants to leave, but.

Harry has a bruise coming up on his jaw, and Louis feels a pool of guilt in his stomach. Instead of apologising or anything of the sort, he starts rummaging around his bag. “Can’t believe I left my shirt up there,” he mumbles.

“You going to do this again next summer?” Hopeful. Harry visibly tries not to, it’s not a manly thing to do, but he wears his heart on his sleeve.

Louis looks up. “Maybe not.” And after a short silence, “Like I said, Eleanor and I are getting married in December. We’ll be looking to buy a ranch, or something. You?”

“I might be back, if nothing better comes along. Maybe do some rodeo until then.”

The pool of dread is growing and growing and. “Well, see you around, I guess.”

“Right.”

They shake hands, and that’s that. Harry gets in his truck, looks at him one more time, and drives off. Away. Gone.

It’s done, except it isn’t. He hadn’t expected it, like all of this, it just barges in uninvited and tackles him by surprise. Feels like someone is pulling his guts out and it _burns_ like fucking hell and it’s nothing like before, nothing like the other fire, nothing like Harry.

He stumbles into an ally next to the bar they had drinks right at the start and crumbles to the ground. He kneels, forehead against the wall, punching it because he’d rather feel the physical pain than everything else. The thing is, he does feel everything else, the longing, the loneliness, the pain, everything at once and he’s never, _never_ , felt such a fucking messed-up bunch of feelings for anyone. He doesn’t know how to handle it, _can’t_ handle it, he’s confused as hell and the only thing he’s absolutely certain of is that he’s never felt this goddamn bad in his entire life.

And it’s all because of one person, one person who crawled under his skin and nestled against his heart like a poison.

There’s angry tears stinging in his eyes and blood on his knuckles when a man passes his alley and stops, looks at him.

Louis glares. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

The man moves on.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: lewdis
> 
> thoughts? yes? no? if i pay? well, too bad  
> (or if you insist)


End file.
